


Moment of Crowning

by Runespoor



Category: Fire Emblem, Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2010-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pelleas is Micaiah's king; she won't let him think too little of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moment of Crowning

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between III-7 and III-12, spoilery.

Pelleas had thought people would come to find him sooner or later, but he'd vaguely wagered it would be his mother, or a servant who'd have been sent with a tray of food for him. (It wasn't the first time he'd have missed a meal recently.)

Light steps paused in front of the office's door. The person would notice there was no light peeking out from under the door, and probably go away. Pelleas didn't make an habit of hiding in the dark - was that really what he was doing, hiding?

The doorknob creaked when it was turned, and the door creaked as well when it was pushed, letting in the muted lights of the torches in the corridor. Pelleas lifted his brow from the cold glass of the window, tearing his gaze from the dark outside, twisting his neck until he faced the door, an apology already on his lips.

He expected to see a chambermaid standing in the door frame, who'd thought she'd grab the opportunity of no-one being there to clean up a little. She'd be terribly embarrassed to find the king was there, and, ah, this was going to be awkward no matter what he did, so it'd be better to acknowledge her presence right away, wasn't it? Or, or, maybe it wasn't, but Pelleas never could shake the feeling of self-consciousness around servants.

But the words he'd been grabbing for never made it past his throat.

It was Micaiah framed in the doorstep, the edges of her figure burnished purple by the dancing flames of the torches. He couldn't see her expression as she stood, but he felt his body tense. He straightened a little in a rustle of cloth that was painfully, embarrassingly loud to his ears, so he'd be less slouching, less sinking, less thrown against the window's glass – a little more as if he was just leaning – a little more turned toward her.

"Mi-micaiah," he stuttered. He didn't even have the slightest idea of what he'd say. Something, anything that would change the fact that he'd been alone, sitting in the dark.

"I thought I would find you here," and Pelleas fell silent as Micaiah whispered, soft and clear.

She stepped into the office that had witnessed the last war meeting, only a few hours earlier. And Pelleas could not imagine why she would want to visit it again.

(Sothe, too, might have been the first one to find him, Pelleas reminded himself. Sothe would have had words with him, and perhaps more, if Micaiah hadn't been there. Of course, if Micaiah hadn't been there, Pelleas wouldn't have been able to give her orders, and Sothe wouldn't have wanted to hit Pelleas.

Dealing with Sothe would have been easier, some treacherously clairvoyant part of Pelleas judged.

In front of Sothe, Pelleas never felt the need to justify himself. In front of Sothe, Pelleas never felt like a traitor, a traitor and a failure. Sothe only obeyed – no, tolerated – him because Micaiah had chosen Pelleas for her king.)

His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth as he watched her turn around and shut the door behind her. When the door was closed, the room was dark once again. He could only just make out her cloaked form, more solid than the surrounding shadows.

"I have been thinking, Your Majesty."

Her voice sounded closer to him in the dark.

His throat was dry, he discovered as he tried to swallow. Tight, too. He wouldn't have been able to get an audible word out even if he'd managed to unfreeze.

Light footsteps again, half-drowned by Pelleas' heartbeats, but which he followed with religious attention until they stopped at the edge of the ghostly shape the glass window cast from behind him, the uncertain glow of the night – moon and stars hung like cemetery lanterns.

"About something your mother said a few weeks ago," she continued. "When you first sent us against the Laguz. About the orders you give me."

For a moment, Pelleas' lungs stopped absorbing air, and he thought he was going to faint – or, when the somersault of his stomach jostled his lungs into working again, throw up.

The first time he'd caved in to Begnion's demands, the awful orders he'd been obligated to pronounce, and Micaiah's candid, straightforward question – _"Another war? Against who?"_ He'd never forget any of that until the day he died.

But it wouldn't be today. Micaiah wouldn't be the one to kill him. (Sothe might, if Micaiah, during a battle—)

"I remember." He willed his voice to sound strong and self-assured, like that of a king, but it came out stifled, as if the darkness around him was a cotton ball.

"She said that I should be confident when telling you what to do. That—" he forced himself to continue, clamping on his nausea "—you were my obedient subject and I should treat you as such."

He steeled himself. He owed her to recognize his wrongs. If tonight was the night she'd chosen to put her foot down to this madness, if she refused to follow him any longer, he would shoulder the blame. He would take her words, be it reproaches or disappointment, and not let a sole pitiful attempt at an excuse out. He would keep the secret and not break down, no matter how right she would be.

He would let her go, he realized, if it meant he could look like a king, just this one time, in front of her.

He was still staring down, at the limit between the moon's light and the obscurity subduing the rest of the room.

"I've been thinking she was right."

A dark slip of cloth fell on the ground, halfway in shadow – one of Micaiah's purple gloves.

Pelleas' gaze startled up at the same time as Micaiah stepped into the light. She was looking down at him – but not looking _down_ on him – with an expression that was part gravity part something else.

"You're the king, Your Majesty." Her hand rose until it closed on the clasp of her cloak. The mark on her skin looked like a piece of art she'd had painted there, so graceful and exotic it looked.

Timidly, Pelleas glanced up, but Micaiah's eyes were undecipherable. He fidgeted in his seat at the windowsill. Since that time when he'd caught a glimpse of it when she washed her hands, he'd never seen her mark again. It was a good thing, he supposed, that she was careful about it; how horrible it would be, especially now, if the people mistook her for a Branded.

But seeing it, now, for her to expose it tonight...

He didn't know what it meant and he was afraid to imagine what it might.

He could try to be brave and pretend to be proud, but she was the only hope he could see for his country. When, before that time at the Ribahn river, had she ever lost a battle? And – if she left–

There was a small click while Pelleas lost himself on the amber surface of Micaiah's mirror eyes.

The cloak slid to the floor.

"I'm yours."

Pelleas felt his lips move wordlessly, and his eyes widen until his skin felt strained.

She was naked.

She took another step – both hypnotizing Pelleas and blinding him, her skin white and gleaming and naked, naked all over and he couldn't bring himself to look and he couldn't bring himself to look _away_.

She was there, she was _there_ and she was _naked_, like in the daydreams that ran away with him and ended, leaving him with shaking hands. She tilted her hips that way of hers, and the waist was the slender waist sketched by her daytime outfit.

He flushed when he saw... looked... at her breasts, small, pointy, nipples dark and hard.

He flushed more when he glanced down (away), hiding behind his bangs, and his attention was caught by the silver triangle between Micaiah's thighs.

She only stopped advancing when she was standing between Pelleas' legs, their knees touching – he couldn't remember ever parting his legs, and his blood was burning down his veins, burning tightly in his groin-- Pelleas couldn't remember having ever been more grateful for the loose folds of his clothes. ...Even during the couple of war meetings in which he'd been like this, there'd always been the table to provide one more screen.

Slowly, she took his hands and put them on her hips. The contact made his face jerk up toward her. His fingers slipped down a little. Her skin was less smooth than he'd imagined, raised in tiny goosebumps because of the cold, but warming under his touch.

"Micaiah..." he pleaded again. He didn't know what for.

"Shhh..." came the whisper, carrying her breath. Pelleas shuddered when it stroked down his cheek, like a very light teasing caress. "I'm yours. Don't you agree, Your Majesty?"

His hands tightened over her buttocks.

"Yes," he finally breathed. "Oh, Goddess, yes."

If she'd laughed then, he might have died, of embarrassment or of something far more enjoyable but no less embarrassing in the long run. She didn't; instead, Micaiah smiled, that little smile that curved the corner of her lips and made him want to kiss her.

"Then, please, Your Majesty."

She rolled her hips to the side, revealing her inner thigh, whiter than the rest of her above the black cloth of her thigh-high socks. Fascinated, Pelleas ran his right thumb on the skin so temptingly displayed.

She shifted, bringing his hand more directly between her thighs as she began to nimbly undo the buttons of his coat.

Pelleas kept on caressing her lightly, entranced by the shivers he could feel breaking on her skin, echoing loudly within him. His own nerves were so taut he felt like Micaiah's fingertips, brushing against the remaining layer of cloth, were sending prickles of lightning through. _She wasn't even touching him yet._

The realization made him bolder; deliberately, he slipped his other hand up, until he was cupping her breast, rubbing his thumb in small circles on the underside.

Micaiah's hands missed a button when his forefinger experimentally brushed against her nipple.

She was leaning closer to him, he realized fuzzily, mirroring the circle pattern on her nipple; the hardening nub made it easy to keep a precise gesture.

"I need you," she murmured in his ear, guiding his right hand between her legs, higher than he'd dared to go, straight among the curls that made Pelleas' cock throb when he touched her.

Micaiah's breath caught when he carefully slipped his fingers against her wetness, between her folds.

And for the first time since he'd ordered her to go fight the Laguz Alliance, Pelleas found himself smiling.


End file.
